


Vantas' Kitchen

by HarpGuy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, a tiny ANGRY chef, a tiny chef, karkat is a chef
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarpGuy/pseuds/HarpGuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas, master chef, has just gained a new tv series.<br/>Conflicts between his unique style of abusive instruction and the family-friendly vision for the show, however, may well lead to tensions on set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A dark room. No sound apart from the quiet hum of electronics.

The lights go up on a large, impressive looking kitchen. A small and disgruntled-looking man stands in the centre of it. He smiles sweetly and looks at the camera. “Good morning,” he says, “and welcome to ‘Kooking with Karkat’-” He frowns and breaks off mid-sentence. “Do I really have to say that? It’s one of the shittiest excuses for a title I’ve ever heard.”

An exasperated voice from the shadows to one side: “Of course you do, Vantas. That’s what the show’s called. Mr. English reckons it’ll be marketable. Get on with it.”  
He looks up at the camera again. “Good morning, and welcome to” - here he breaks off and grimaces slightly – “Kooking with Karkat. This week we’re going to be cooking something so easy that even you vacuous shitstains should be able to make it.”

A bored sounding voice interrupts from the shadows again. “You can’t address the viewers like that, Mr. Vantas. Take three.”

Karkat frowns. “Fuck you.” He turns back to the camera and continues. “This week we’re going to be cooking something nice and easy, specially for those of you so incompetent that you can’t do anything more interesting. Lasagne’s pretty damn good even if you can cook, but never mind. 

“First, you need pasta. Huge sheets of pasta. Shit, you could probably cover a bed with this stuff –“

The voice interrupts him again. “Watch your language, Vantas. You know you can’t say that on the air.”

Karkat, beginning to go visibly red, resumes his monologue. “Huge sheets of pasta. What else? Mince. It doesn’t matter what sort of mince. Go out and beat the shit out of any animal that happens to piss you off and mince the corpse –“

A cough. “Language!”

Looking even more frustrated, he continues. “Find some mince. Any mince. I don’t care what sort. Here’s mine; I have no fucking clue what sort of animal it is.”

“Mr. Vantas!”

“Oh fuck OFF. Anyway. Mince. Slap it in a pan with a pile of vegetables and stuff. Get it browned up.” He throws the mince into a pan, turns the stove on and slams the pan down with a determined clang. Now we have to wait for that shit to cook.”

“Language! We’d better do that again.”

“What the fuck do I do now? I’ve already thrown the mince on to cook!”

“Stick it in the corner and get more mince, I suppose.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Fine.” Stomping across the kitchen, he puts the pan on one side and goes to get more mince. Soon he’s back in front of the camera, looking almost ready to snap. “You take your mince and some little bits of rabbit food, and you throw it all in a fucking pan.”

“Can you do that again without swearing, please? Can you do anything without swearing?”

“You put it. In a pan,” he growls through gritted teeth, “then you brown it like this. While you wait for it to cook, you go out and buy some milk, because you’re probably too stupid to prepare properly –“

“What have we said about insulting viewers?”

***

Some time later, the kitchen is filled with vast mounds of mince. Sheets of pasta are stacked up distressingly tall, and an implausibly large vat of sauce sits in one corner. Sweat dripping down his face, Karkat stands in front of the camera once more, face thunderous. A magnificent lasagne sits on the worksurface beside him.  
“There,” he says, face contorted with the effort of not shouting, “That’s how you make a fucking lasagne, you incompetent cretins. Next week we’ll be trying out something a little more complicated, like some sort of cake or something.” He runs his fingers through sweat-soaked hair before turning away from the camera. “Fuck you!” he shouts, “I’m not doing that again! You can just broadcast whatever you can salvage from that! I’m sure some of the dickscratching wastes of space in the editing department can do something with it; I’m done! Fuck you all; I’m going home!” He throws his oven glove down on the worksurface dramatically and leaves, but misses. Turning round, he runs back, picks it up and places it reverently on one of the pasta-free spaces. Dramatic exit ruined, he storms off to his dressing room. 

***

The editing room is chaos. All of the editors are crowded around one of the screens, laughing hysterically. A tall, thin young man stands behind them, glaring disapprovingly. His bright red roll-neck sweater is the only bright colour in the dim room. “Stop laughing!” he says, “This is a major problem! What can we do to make this presentable?”

“Make it presentable?” asks one of the editing staff, “Believe me, it’s perfectly presentable.”

“What are you talking about? This could be really offensive to some people!”

“Nah. Most’ll just find it hilarious. This is the best thing we’ve done in years.”

“What about the children, though? We need to cut it a bit; make it family friendly.”

“There’s no way this guy’ll ever be suitable for children. Give up now, mate.”

“At least cut the swearing. That’ll make a difference.”

“If we cut the swearing all we’ll have is a silent video of some mince in a pan. Don’t you worry, we’ll sort something out.”

Looking distinctly concerned, the man in the red sweater nods hesitantly and leaves, chewing the frayed neck of his sweater. As the door closes behind him, peals of laughter start up from the editing suite once more.


	2. Chapter 2

It is a number of months later. The afternoon sun falls warmly through a large window at one end of a magnificent office. Abstract art lines the walls, and a vast desk sits at one end. Kankri Maryam, the red-sweatered young man last seen in the editing department, sits uncomfortably in a leather chair in front of the desk. Behind the desk is a small, skinny, bald man. He stares intensely at Kankri, and eventually opens his mouth to speak. “What,” he says, “do you have to say about the cost of ‘Kooking with Karkat’?” His speech is odd; his pauses are all ever so slightly too long. This has a very disconcerting effect, and is in fact a trait carefully cultivated to make his underlings uncomfortable.

Kankri swallows. “We keep needing to buy more food, Mr. English, sir. Mr. Vantas can require... uh... quite a lot.”

“Why does he require so much? What are his reasons? He’s only small; he can’t require that much food.”

“It was to... er... optimise the footage. For sensitive viewers, sir.”

“Why,” – an uncomfortably long pause – “do we give a fuck about the sensitive viewers?

“Because we can’t afford to offend the target audience!”

“We can’t afford this extra food. That you keep buying. To avoid offending these pathetic people. The numbers for ‘Kooking with Karkat’ are the best we’ve ever had. But the budget is not unlimited.”

“But, sir... people could have serious anxiety attacks from Mr. Vantas’... um... forthright manner!”

“Have you seen the show? Mr. Vantas is pretty fucking blunt if you ask me. His forthright manner. Is probably his main selling point.”

“That is an entirely inappropriate and ignorant viewpoint, sir! People may have triggers which, if we broadcast on television, at least need trigger warnings before the show!”

“Fuck your trigger warnings.”

“Sir!”

“No, seriously. Fuck them. Try and edit Mr. Vantas down as much as you like. But if you want to keep going like this. You’ll have to find some more money somewhere.”

***

A nondescript office. A knock sounds on the door, and the man sitting behind the desk looks up. His platinum blond hair is swept back from his forehead, and he wears pointed shades even indoors. “Come in,” he says.

The door opens and Kankri walks in. The man behind the desk rolls his eyes behind the shades. “Maryam,” he says, “sit down and tell me what you’re here for.”

Kankri sits down. “We’ve got a problem, Strider,” he mumbles.

Strider raises an eyebrow. “A problem? What sort of problem might ‘we’ have that would require my help?”

“It’s ‘Kooking with Karkat’. Mr. English says it’s too expensive.”

“Ah, I see. And you want me to think up a way of raising some funds to cover the show?”

“Er, yes. What with you being in charge of marketing, I thought you might be able to have some ideas. I’m not awfully creative.”

“Yes, I’d noticed. Too concerned with tastefulness to be any fun.”

“Hey! I resent that, Strider.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Kankri looks a little uncomfortable and shuffles down into his seat a bit, beginning to chew the neckline of his sweater again.

Strider smiles slightly. “Good. Now, off the top of my head I can think of a couple of things that might work. We’ve got the Vantas branded ingredients out there already, but they don’t sell all that well, which is kind of a shame. We’ve also got a pretty obsessive fanbase, though.”

Kankri sits up again. “Fanbase? For him?”

“Yeah. Believe it or not, our diminutive shouty star is quite the popular man. Anyway, I think we could do quite nicely out of selling a few more bits of tie-in food.”

“How do we do that?”

“Shush. I haven’t finished yet. The simple way to boost the income from the products is to increase sales, and that’s my job. A sales boost shouldn’t be too hard; we can just set up some sort of competition that needs a purchase to enter.”

Kankri looks expectant, and Dirk continues. “What sort of things do obsessive fans want to win?”

Kankri looks thoughtful. “Er...”

“No, don’t answer that. It was a fucking rhetorical question. I’ll tell you what fandoms want. They want to meet their heroes. Therefore, offering the chance to meet Vantas should be a nice sales boost, and the money should come rolling in.”

Kankri looks a little puzzled. “But why would anyone want to meet Vantas? He’s awful and offensive...”

“True. But that’s precisely why they do want to meet him. They love his unique brand of presenting. Now, go and do whatever you do. Try to convince him to play nice or something. Just fuck off and leave me to deal with this competition thing.”


	3. Chapter 3

A few weeks later, and sales of official Vantas ingredients have rocketed. The prospect of meeting Karkat is clearly just what the fanbase needed to encourage them.   
In a small house somewhere nondescript and suburban lives a man named John Egbert. Currently, he is sitting in his bedroom writing. It’s a small room, and the walls are almost completely covered with posters of things that John likes. Most of the posters are of Karkat Vantas. He considers himself the biggest fan of “Kooking with Karkat” in the world, and his various works of (often erotic) fanfiction about Vantas are very well received by the fanbase. Finishing his paragraph, he closes his laptop and stands up. The mail must have arrived by now.

When he reaches the mailbox outside, he sees that it has indeed. Hands trembling, he picks up the pile of letters and shuffles through them. There! At the very bottom of the stack! There’s the one he was looking for. Stifling a squeak of excitement, he seizes the envelope firmly in both hands, letting the rest of them cascade to the floor, and hurriedly tears it open. He pulls out the sheet of paper and casts the torn envelope aside.

His eyes scan the page and he gives out a whoop. Waving the sheet of paper above his head, he sprints back into the house, screeching with excitement. The windows of the neighbouring houses open and the inhabitants peer out. When they see that it’s only Mr. Egbert making noises again, though, they retreat to the safety of their homes.

When he gets back into the house, though, John realises that there’s nobody else home. His sister is still visiting their cousins, and she won’t be back for a few hours. Still twitching with excitement, he returns to his bedroom, picks up his laptop and begins to write again.  
Some time later, the front door opens and a woman who looks quite a lot like John walks in. She is his sister Jane, and she has just returned from several days away from home. It’s been a very long journey, and all she wants to do is sleep. She walks through into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and sees what John has done to the place in her absence. 

She wonders if this is one of his practical jokes. Has she done something recently that might have set him off? The Egbert household has always been fairly unusual, but this is beyond the usual level of ridiculousness. This is just too far. She picks up her best bludgeoning spoon.

“JOHN!”

John emerges from his room at a run, grinning like a lunatic. “I w-“

“Tell me, why do we have about sixty kilos of flour and the best part of a hundred eggs in the   
kitchen?”

“Jane! I won!”

“No, John. What’s the flour for?”

“But jane! I won!”

“Can you please stand still while I’m talking to you?”

John looks a little sad and stops excitably bunny-hopping around the room. “Sorry.”

“WHAT'S THE FLOUR FOR?”

“I don't care, do something with it! I won!”

“JOHN! WHY DID YOU BUY SO MUCH FLOUR?”

John’s face falls. “But... I won...”

“What am I meant to do with all this food?”

“I don't know, make a cake or something!”

“John.”

“What?”

“JOHN!”

“WHAT?”

“You hate cake.”

“Oh. Yes. Fuck.”

“I'm going to make cake, and you're going to eat it.”

“Aw... But...”

“NO BUTS! YOU BOUGHT IT! YOU'RE GOING TO EAT IT!”

***

Several days and much furious baking later, Jane and the kitchen have both pretty much recovered. John finally feels able to emerge from his bedroom and speak to his sister again. When he gets downstairs, she’s leaning on the worksurface, hair greying with flour. Or possibly frustration. He can’t quite tell.

“J.. Jane?”

Jane frowns suspiciously and reaches instinctively for the spoon, still not quite ready to forgive him. “What is it, John?”

“Do you want to know what it was that I won?”

“Not much, no.”

John looks crestfallen and sighs. Jane rolls her eyes. “You’re going to tell me anyway, though, aren’t you?”

Grinning again, John continues. “I won the competition!”

“What competition?”

“I’m going to actually meet Karkat Vantas!”


End file.
